Chapter Twenty

Thorald, Eibithar

Marston had hoped to reach his father’s castle in Thorald long before the end of the waning. Indeed, he had promised his wife and children that he would be back in Shanstead by Pitch Night. That now seemed unlikely. The ride from Kentigern to Thorald measured nearly a hundred leagues and would have taken the company from Shanstead nearly half a turn even in the best weather. The return of the snows slowed them as they crossed the Moorlands, as did the rising of a cold north wind as they forded Binthar’s Wash. As the waning progressed, Marston feared that they would not ford the Thorald River until Qirsar’s Turn began, and with it the new year.

Entering the North Wood, however, they found the forest roads muddy but passable, and they were able to quicken their pace. For the next four days, Marston pushed the men and their mounts, resting only when absolutely necessary and riding well into the night by the weak glow of the two moons. They came within sight of Thorald’s famed walls and double moat the day before Pitch Night. Most of the celebrations were over by then. Marston had long since missed Bohdan’s Night, the Night of Two Moons in the god’s turn, when family and friends exchanged gifts and shared in great feasts. But at least he and his men would not be abroad on the last night of the waning.

As the Pitch Night legends went, Bohdan’s Turn offered little to fear. Pitch Night in the god’s turn was a night of quiet contemplation after the festivities of the turn. But even the bravest of men preferred to be safely housed on any night when neither moon shone.

After leaving the mounts with the castle’s stablemaster, and making certain that his men were given rooms on the east corridor, where the castle’s guests were always lodged, Marston walked across the upper ward to his father’s quarters. A light snow fell on the brown grasses and empty gardens of the ward, and a cold wind blew over the castle’s ramparts, carrying the scent of Amon’s Ocean and the ghostly cry of a single gull.

Usually, Marston would have brought Xivled, his Qirsi minister, to such a meeting. But Aindreas had insisted that Xiv be excluded from their conversation in Kentigern, and though the man had been uncompromising in his condemnation of the king, and unreasonable in the demands he placed on Thorald, Marston thought it best to honor his demand for privacy, even here. He also hadn’t seen his father in some time, and given how quickly the illness was spreading through Tobbar’s body, there was part of him that feared seeing the duke again. Best that he be alone.

As it happened, he had also asked Xiv to attend to another matter while they were in Thorald, one that needed to be addressed discreetly.

Entering the tower at the north corner of the ward, Marston hesitated, unsure as to whether to go to Tobbar’s presence hall or his chambers.

“He’s in his bedchambers, my lord,” one of the guards said, his voice low.

Marston turned to the man. “Is he worse, then?”

The guard stared at him for a moment before lowering his gaze and nodding.

Marston took a breath, his stomach tightening. I’m not ready to be duke. I’m not ready to lose my father. “I see. Thank you.”

He climbed the stairs to the upper corridor and walked quickly to his father’s chambers. Marston and his brother had been raised in Shanstead; his father only came to Thorald seven and half years before when Filib the Elder, duke of Thorald and next in line after old Aylyn to be king, was killed in a hunting accident. Marston and Chalton hadn’t even been of Fating age then, but the duke’s son, Filib the Younger, needed a regent, and since he was then heir to the throne, his needs outweighed those of Tobbar’s sons. Tobbar returned to Shanstead quite often during the next several years, but still Marston felt that he had been robbed of his father. His resentment of his cousin Filib festered like an untreated wound until he found himself lying in his bed in the dark of night, wishing for the boy’s death.

By the time Filib was killed, several years later-everyone assumed at the time that his death came at the hands of common road thieves- Marston had outgrown his childish jealousies. He was seventeen by then, past his Fating. He had assumed the thaneship in Shanstead and so had come to understand the workings of the Eandi courts and the demands placed by the Rules of Ascension upon all the major houses, but especially Thorald.

Still, those nights he had spent cursing Filib’s name haunted him, and he couldn’t help but feel some guilt about the boy’s death. To this day, walking through the corridors of Thorald Castle disturbed him. Despite the Thorald blood flowing in his veins, despite the many years his father had lived here, this fortress had never been his home. He would be duke before long. Chalton would take the thaneship and Marston would move to Thorald. But he doubted that he would ever feel comfortable in this place. His heart lay in Shanstead.

Pausing in front of his father’s door to take a long breath and offer a quick prayer to Ean, Marston knocked.

“Come in!” Tobbar’s voice sounded strong, giving the thane some hope.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the room. A fire burned brightly in the hearth and the windows were shuttered, making the chamber far too warm for Marston’s liking. But Tobbar was seated by a low table, rather than lying in bed, a small scroll in his hands. His face appeared far too thin and pale, the round ruddy cheeks Marston remembered from just a year ago nothing more than a memory. But his grey eyes sparkled with the glow of the fire, and a smile lit his face. He even managed to stand as Marston crossed the chamber to embrace him.

“I expected you days ago,” the duke said, releasing his son and waving a bony hand at a nearby chair.

Marston pulled the chair over next to his father’s and sat.

“I know. If the snows had held off for another half turn, we would have been here sooner. As it was we were lucky to make it here when we did.”

He glanced around the chamber and was pleased to see that his father was alone, save for a pair of servants. Usually his first minister was with him. Enid ja Kovar had served Tobbar for several years now, and though his father still trusted her, even with all the rumors of Qirsi betrayal spreading across the Forelands, Marston did not. As his doubts about Filib the Younger’s death mounted, he had begun to question whether the minister might have been involved in the young lord’s murder. Tobbar rejected the notion, and had grown angry the last time Marston raised the matter. But the thane still preferred to avoid her. At this point, he distrusted most Qirsi. Xiv was the son of his father’s first Qirsi advisor. The two of them had spent much of their youth together. Had he not agreed to serve as Marston’s minister, the thane would have none at all. As it was, he did not plan to take on more ministers when he became duke, though most dukes had several underministers in addition to their first ministers. He had little doubt that as word of the Qirsi conspiracy continued to spread, more and more Eandi nobles would follow his example.

“Tell me of your visit with Kentigern.”

Marston gave a wan smile. “I’m afraid it wasn’t much of a visit. I was there only one night before he as much as ordered me from his castle.”

Tobbar’s eyes widened. “What did you say to him?”

“Nothing that you wouldn’t have, Father. I promise you.”

The duke looked away, his expression troubled. “I believe you. Tell me what happened.”

Marston described his conversation with Aindreas, making certain not to leave out any details, not even those he knew would displease his father.

“You shouldn’t have brought up Brienne’s murder,” Tobbar said when he had finished, shaking his head and staring at the fire.